So the New York Times, in it's inestimably clueless fashion published this article
No doubt certain segments of our population are beside themselves, happy to be on the very cutting edge of oh, whatever
I understand that journalists, and I use this word loosely here, need a certain amount of copy daily to fill all those pages. Imagine. An article about hipsters and women's fashion designers growing beards. Who knew?
Clearly the writer doesn't know the first thing about beards. If you're using your razor four times a year, as the author implies in his first paragraph, you're in deep trouble. That's not a beard, that tangled underbrush. A beard necessitates a great deal of shaping and grooming.
Frankly, if anybody asked me "Is that beard from Dolce & Gabbana?" I would slug them.
Let's crank this down several notches.
I grew the very beard that resides on my face to this day in September of 1975. I can carbon-date this event because I had just moved into my very own first apartment at the tender age of 20.
A gentleman, let's call him George, phoned to ask me out. I told him I'd just been bumming around the house and hadn't shaved over the course of the weekend.
"Grow a beard, and come on over", he suggested.
And so I did. On both counts.
It took a while to actually decide on a shape I was happy with. After much experimenting, it eventually morphed into what it is today. And God knows, I don't shave four times a year. It's a daily, sometimes twice daily event. If I didn't, I'd certainly be giving the Wolfman a run for his money.
Let's face it. If you have nice eyes, a beard will highlight and enhance them. It also helps to soften any of the harsher features one might have. Mark's beauty tip, 31 years fresh.
Years ago, Robert confiscated this picture from a gentleman who had snapped it on a wintry morning back in 1976 down on the Morton Street pier. The man in question had taken to carrying it around in his wallet, and made the mistake of showing it to Robert, who promptly took possession of it, and me.
For decades, Robert kept this photo in a scrap book, which is where I found it the other night. On the facing page he had pasted a photograph of a baby eagle.
Paul Bunyan, Modern-Day Sex Symbol? I think not.
Just a kid, rolling out of yet another friendly bed and heading down to the river to hang with his friends.
I applaud my fashion-forwardness.